Partition
by tco-deanirae
Summary: I'm not sure if it got deleted w/o my consent or if I forgot to post it? anyway The leviathan from 7.06 who tried to "play" Sam, got Dean instead. And boy, he got morbidly fascinated. basically leviathan!Dean/Dean


Dean is used to ending up screwed in disturbing places, but even among the rich variety of messed up locations he's found himself immobilized in, a bar full of moderately fresh and moderately mutilated corpses is a fucking new one. Stuck midway between the ground and ceiling with hands tied to the supporting beam and both chest and legs bound tightly to a pillar, he's got a perfect view on the artwork of atrocity in which the inconspicuous joint had turned into. Dean somehow recognizes some of the moves pulled on the victims and it makes his stomach turn. He almost feels inclined to marvel at the unexpected turn of events that actually managed to evoke the emotion of surprise in his guts, since he's been quite convinced that the days where he was still able to be surprised are long gone. Last thing that worked was the combo of Cas cheating on him, well, figuratively speaking, then dying, undying and dying again, replaced by a jar of liquid ugly, leaving him with a very unstable deteriorating Sam of his very own, and yeah – that did mark an end of an era.

Okay, but this – this can be the fucking dawn of a new one. He would celebrate that with a drink, and shit, in theory he's got assload to choose from, but that isn't really a possibility right now. Not if he wants to see if there still is a chance to get out of this in one piece it isn't. Truth be told, staying alive wasn't exactly a necessary outcome, which is more or less why left Sam behind and left to take care of this chomper hunt alone. But for the love of fuck, out of all the ways to die Dean accepts, this isn't one of them.

He only managed to catch a glimpse of the shit he's stepped into before he got knocked out unconscious. And knowing what's coming, he chose to play dead for longer than it's decent. Good thing the dumb fuck got so bored with waiting he left for a stroll or whatever it is that these bitches do. This gave Dean some time to assess his situation and make it at least a little less pathetic – which, given the circumstances, he thinks he kinda succeeded at. This is yet about to turn out, very soon, actually, since he can hear the door opening and creaking very clearly. Against his own will, he's starting to wonder if this is how his steps sound to other people – the way he hears his host approaching. He's done with pretending he's out because it doesn't have a chance of working for that long, but it doesn't mean he's willing to look up and confront the motherfucker face to face. Since, well, both faces are fucking his. What a night. What a life. What and why the fuck.

"Finally you're up," Dean hears his own voice and the fact itself combined with a falsely sweet note drowned into it makes him want to puke. Much, much more than the sight of all the bodies possibly could. "Whatcha doin?"

"Just hanging around," he retorts angrily.

"You and these cheap puns of yours," the asshole chuckles. "Should've seen that coming."

"Should've tried a different suit if this doesn't go well with you," Dean huffs.

"Nah, had to be you, babe. Okay, either you or your brother, but…" he sighs dramatically.

"But what," Dean nags, buying himself time.

"But I went with the scissors," the leviathan concludes and Dean fights the urge to slap himself in the face in defeat, but whatever leverage he might have he obviously doesn't want to give away, so he just rolls his eyes instead.

"Born for the role, weren't you."

"I thought the same when I dug into that rotten pineapple of yours," the monster hums. "But I don't think it's just the scissors, babe," he adds, sounding so dreamy it disturbs Dean even further – something he only now found out it was even possible to achieve.

There's a handful of good questions he knows he should ask instead, but that seems off enough he supposes it would be best if he learned what lies beneath first.

"Care to explain?" he groans and looks the beast in his green, gleeful eyes.

"Look closer, babe!" the monster gesticulates at the bar, at the casualties lying around like empty bottles and thrash. "Oh, come on, babe. It's just you and me here. And between the two of us, you don't need to lie. What you know, I know. I'm sure you've noticed by now," he encourages.

Except that Dean is too stuck on the problem of being called _babe_ so many times in a row to think of the hints he's being given. Bitter tang of repulsion filling his mouth at the sound of the pet-name slash insult is taking most of his most immediate attention. Cause usually when his mouth attaches that particular word to someone, it is a very clear indicator of him wanting to get physical. And he can't help but wonder if this is something the leviathan sucked out of his head, too. Behind the fog of his musings, Dean can hear his own voice groaning a little in disappointment.

"I admire your art," comes the admission after a moment of silence and this brings Dean back to the present. He know how he sounds when he's honest.

He takes a look around again and he sees, he remembers again. His cuts, his techniques, his bloody signatures. Dean swallows hard. No wonder all of this seemed so familiar, and what's worse, so homely.

"Too bad I'm retired. But let me go and I'll make an exception and turn you into one of those," he says calmly. It almost feels as if he was in his own torture-chapel, as if he was the one empowered once more. The familiarity gives him confidence, ugly sort of confidence, he knows, but confidence nonetheless, so he can make use of it just as well. What Cas doesn't see – won't hurt him. And Cas is fucking gone, he can't see shit. Besides, at this point Cas's hands ain't clean either.

"That's bullshit. We, I've, been locked up, dormant for eons. But do I look like I stopped being hungry, babe? You can always go back to what you've been once you're free of whatever's been holding you down. And I know first-hand the holy-schmoly light that has been shining on your face and your hands is no longer here to do that."

Dean chooses to disregard the fact that he reached more or less the same conclusion just a moment ago.

"Thanks for the compliment, but you think too low of me."

"Can't think any lower than you already do, Dean. I've got the advantage of a better perspective on your insides, though. See, at first I didn't want to have shit to do with your head, you know? All the love-blind view of you the angel had and left us to work with… shit, babe, it was something to puke at. Like, _Jesus fucking kiddo, what a holy bitch_ , I thought. So righteous, so kind, so smart, so damaged and beautiful and… _boring_ ," he snarls in disgust."I wanted to be Sam, you know, babe? Demon blood and all that sturm und drang jazz – that was supposed to be a solid potential, right? But then the scissors happened!" the monster goes on with growing excitement. Dean didn't know it's able for his voice to sound like a six year old about to piss himself, but here it is. "And babe, I was so, so wrong," he says in an apologetic tone, cupping Dean's cheeks carefully, poisonous eyes piercing him with fascination, pupils wide. Too wide for Dean not to get what that means. He flinches. But at the same time he makes a note to self that at least now he knows he looks so fucking good when he's turned on. Better than he assumed he can. Fuckable. Like, fuckable on sight kind of fuckable. Shit. He becomes aware his own dick just got the memo. Shit.

"Were you?" he asks, too huskily for his own liking. Yet another shit.

The monster's face – well, his face – brightens with a smile, one that is with no doubt lustful in its intent. He licks his mouth before answering and Dean copies the notion, unaware of doing it.

"Yeah, babe. To think I could've missed this? Your head is a Gatsby party, babe. I'm old as shit, but you – you are something you get to see once in a life-time. You're messed up, broken and filthy. So much you're a thorny masterpiece walking and talking. You reek of contradictions and it's so otherworldly it's a drug to me. I wanna rub that toxin all over me, babe," the monster confesses in a needy groan and the meaning behind those words runs straight to Dean's already filling dick. And okay, fuck this shit. Fuck everything. He earned this.

"Well," Dean licks his lips again, this time on purpose, "anything you wanna do about it?"

"I had a brother with this many issues once," the leviathan muses, taking his hands away from Dean's face, dragging them down slowly through the fabric of clothes towards his hips instead. "You know what I did?" he asks and Dean raises his eyebrow at that. "I ate him," the monster says mischievously and quickly works the fly of Dean's jeans out of the way, pulling both his pants and boxers down to close his mouth on the head of at his point fully hard cock faster than Dean managed to mutter out a _Jesus fucking Christ_ , which he was certainly trying to achieve, but he doesn't even know if he got that right since the mouth teasing the crown is definitely more interesting than verbal coherence. Watching the leviathan wrap his mouth around his shaft and slowly sink lower, enveloping more and more of his greedy flesh, Dean understands. Even though all the "mouth meant for cock-sucking" comments remain shitty in his book and all the jaws he had to break in consequence are a well deserved punishment, he really gets where they were coming from now. Those lips, tight and wet around his dick, this is something beautiful. A sight to jack off to for months. In fact, if he survives this, he's sure he's going to have a whole new set of masturbatory fantasies to work with. The languidness of the whole announced "eating" is irritating to bear. It itches Dean more than a little to shove his hand into that messy hair and pull that lazy mouth down to the base of his cock, because damn, if that mouth isn't going to fuck him properly soon, he's gonna have to fuck into it himself, which pretty much kills the "distract it and shoot its head off' plan, which kind of is the only survival scenario he's got.

"Stop showing off and get to work, I don't remember my mind being a library of tips to giving bad blow jobs!" he hisses.

The monster chuckles, stopping midway down Dean's dick and retreats entirely to stroke it quite roughly with his fist while using his now free mouth to speak. "It taught me the opposite, babe," he assures.

"Then show me what my skills are good for. Come on, make me proud of myself," Dean commands.

The leviathan says nothing in reply, but Dean didn't fail to catch that sly little smile that crawled onto his face right before he swallowed him as deep as his throat only let him so easily as if he was doing that for a lifetime. That's more like it. The monster knows what to do with his hands as well, and while he's got his pie hole going steadily, wetly and efficiently up and down his flesh, sending crushing waves of pleasures onto Dean's senses with his thin extra tongues working their art on the tip of his cock while his perfect-fit lips entertain the shaft, he remembers to cup lightly at Dean's balls and to prod at his perineum. As this occurs, too much for one mind and one dick to contain, Dean begins to forget more and more. He forgets the no hands rule, too and when he realizes he's gripping a handful of leviathan hair, subconsciously trying to maneuver the beast mouth down his cock, it's too late and too fucking obvious that his supposed to be perfectly tied up hands aren't that fucking tied anymore. Shit. Dean stiffens and holds his breath without even knowing. The monster, however, doesn't stop. He continues sucking him off as scheduled, but he reaches out with his spare hand towards Dean's jacket and takes out his gun from his hidden inner pocket and puts it down on the ground next to him, just like that.

He knew.

The only reaction Dean thinks he gets is that he's convinced he can feel the monster sigh against his cock. He increases his tempo and the roughness of his caresses twofold. Soon he's got Dean undone, whimpering and shuddering as he's trying to buck his hips somehow into the mouth that brought him beyond the edge of his senses. The leviathan licks him clean, steps away. Stares, pity painted all over his face. And Dean, despite being terrified and confused as hell at this point, can't take his eyes off the sight of another him licking off and swallowing his own come. This is something he would like to think about often, if he was given a chance to survive this night, which, he supposes, probably isn't going to happen.

"Free hands. You can fix your pants yourself now, babe."

"You knew I was gonna do that," Dean states flatly and proceeds to gets himself free from the remaining bonds with a knife stashed and patiently waiting inside of his pocket.

"Try to shoot me? Yeah. Was just curious if you could make it patiently long enough," he explains, sounding disappointed. "But you were greedy. Now you don't get the real prize."

"What prize?"

"Was gonna let you find out on your own dick if what they say about your ass is true as well."

"You were gonna let me fuck your ass," Dean says, disbelieving.

"Was. But I guess I'll have to teach you better, babe," he sighs.

"Teach me?" Dean huffs.

"It's not like you're in a hurry anywhere. Drink?"

"Make it a double," Dean sighs as he zips his jeans up and sits behind a corpse-free table.


End file.
